A Nanny For Christmas

There was no television in the cottage—Hanson the Hateful claimed the weight of an aerial would damage the chimney—so she listened to the radio as she usually did, then went to bed.

And, for the first time in over a year, she found herself having the dream.

As always there was music playing, somewhere in the distance, and she was floating, weightless, on a bed of clouds, spinning slowly and gently in a gigantic circle, singing softly to herself. There were faces looking down at her, all smiling, and she smiled back, comforted by love and approval, until she saw that all the faces were masked and the smiles painted on, and she tried to run away, and they held her down, their laughter echoing thinly from behind the masks, drowning the music.

And then they all vanished, and he was there—the Dark Lord—staring at her with eyes so cold that they burned.

Shouting at her with words that made no sense, but she knew were full of hatred and contempt.

Threatening her, frightening her with his anger. His disgust.

And she suddenly realised that she was naked and tried to cover herself with her hands, but they were clamped to her sides, and she was spinning again, faster and faster, sinking backwards into some void, trying to hide from the ice and fire of the Dark Lord’s eyes. But knowing that there was no escape.

She awoke, sobbing helplessly as she always did, her whole body bathed in sweat.

When she’d regained control, she lay quietly, staring into the darkness, wondering what had prompted a recurrence of her nightmare.

Fitton Magna, she thought, wincing. Tara had said she lived there. That must have been the reason.

But why did it still have to happen? It was six years ago, after all, that devastating, humiliating night. Wasn’t it time she laid the memory of it to rest? Surely she wasn’t going to be haunted like this for the rest of her life?

The sooner I get away from this whole area and make a completely fresh start, she told herself, the better it will be.

The following day was Friday and market day, and the tea rooms were extra busy.

As the afternoon wore on Phoebe cleared the corner table by the window and put a RESERVED notice on it.

And won’t I look a fool if she doesn’t turn up? she thought.

But, sure enough, Tara made her appearance at the usual time, and seemed sedately pleased that Phoebe had kept a space for her.

‘What’s it to be today?’ Phoebe smiled down at her. ‘Hot milk again? And Mrs Preston’s made some chocolate muffins.’

Tara’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, please.’

For a child who seemed to be bringing herself up, she had lovely manners, Phoebe thought as she went to get the order.

After that there was another rush of customers, and it was an hour later that she finally had time to realise that Tara was still sitting at the corner table, staring forlornly through the window.

She checked beside her. ‘I’m sorry, poppet. Did you want to pay?’

The child shook her head, looking down and biting her lip. ‘I can’t. Cindy didn’t give me any money today. She said I had to wait here instead until she came. Only she hasn’t,’ she added on a little wail.

‘Don’t get upset.’ Phoebe passed her a clean paper napkin. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay the bill for you, and Cindy can settle with me. How’s that?’

Tara shook her head. ‘We can’t do that. I don’t know where she is.’

‘Well, she can’t be too far away. She knows you’re waiting.’ Phoebe tried to sound casual. ‘Is she out with her boyfriend again?’

Tara’s eyes looked very big in her small face. ‘You aren’t meant to know about him. No one is. She’ll be cross if she thinks I’ve told.’

‘Well, you haven’t,’ Phoebe said cheerfully. ‘So that’s all right. Now, you stay right there, and I’ll bring you another muffin. And by the time you’ve eaten it Cindy will be here for you.’

‘What’s going on?’ Lynn mouthed as she dashed past with a loaded tray.

‘Cindy—no show,’ Phoebe returned succinctly, and Lynn’s brows shot up to her hairline.

But, in spite of her optimistic forecast, no one tall, blonde and Australian arrived at the tea rooms, and it was rapidly approaching closing time.

‘Call the police,’ said Lynn. ‘That’s what Mrs Preston would say.’

‘I can’t,’ Phoebe protested. ‘She’s upset enough as it is, poor little devil. It could create all kinds of repercussions.’

Lynn sighed. ‘Then what are you going to do?’

Phoebe took a deep breath. ‘I’ll take her home myself. And hopefully give Cindy, and this absentee father of hers, a piece of my mind in the process.’

‘You can’t just walk off with someone’s child. Otherwise it will be you the police will be calling on.’

‘That’s a risk I’ll have to take.’ Phoebe looked at the clock above the kitchen door. ‘And why isn’t there a search party out for her anyway? No, I’ve got to do it, Lynn. I’ve got to see her home safely and talk to someone in authority about what’s been going on.’

Lynn shook her head. ‘Rather you than me.’

As Phoebe had expected, Tara was reluctant to accompany her.

‘No, I’ve got to wait for Cindy.’ Her bottom lip jutted ominously.

‘But the café is closing for the night,’ Phoebe told her gently. ‘If Cindy comes it will be all dark and locked up.’

‘Then I’ll sit in her car and wait.’

Over my dead body, Phoebe returned silently. Aloud, she said, ‘Let’s go and see if it’s still where she parked it, shall we?’

The main car park was emptying fast, and the white Peugeot 205 was standing in the middle, in splendid isolation. It was also securely locked, which Phoebe secretly regarded as a bonus under the circumstances.

However, she was getting more concerned about Cindy’s non-appearance by the minute.

‘Perhaps her boyfriend’s motorbike’s had a puncture,’ she suggested neutrally. ‘Whatever, there’s no point hanging round here in the cold and dark. We’ll go round to the bus station and find out when there’s one to Fitton Magna.’

But here too she drew a blank. Buses to Fitton Magna, she learned, were thin on the ground. There was one return trip mid-morning and mid-afternoon each day. And a market day special which she’d missed as well.

‘Right,’ Phoebe said breezily, thanking her stars she’d been paid at lunchtime. ‘We’ll get a taxi.’

Even if the people at the other end weren’t very pleased with what she had to say, they would at least reimburse the fare to her—wouldn’t they?

‘Do you know the address?’ she asked, fixing Tara’s seat-belt.

‘Of course.’ The outraged note was back, if a little wobbly. ‘It’s North Fitton House.’